Two weekends ago, the weather was beautiful. The fog retreated and the sky was a deep blue. On Sunday, we made lunch plans to meet Roger and Diane on the Avila pier. It was a bit windy, but we scored a perfect set of outdoor tables and had a big seafood lunch. We enjoyed musing about the sea lions and how they ended up so high above the water on their little wooden nap shelves. We explored the new seafood market and reminisced about previous outings. That afternoon, we said our farewells and headed home, a box of SloDoCo donuts waiting on the kitchen table. Jacob had been gripped with the urge for donuts after earning some money on Saturday afternoon.
A Fucillo Family group text came through and it hit me. When I left my last job, I lost access to my calendar, and the all-important time marker of when we lost Papa. June 2nd. And yet, today, of all days, we had the quintessential Papa day. The only thing that would have made it more perfect is if we’d come across wet concrete and remembered to score our lunch on a scale of 1-10.
This past Sunday, Nate comes down early in his green pajama pants and makes himself comfortable on the couch. He’s super excited because today’s the day I’m taking him to the airport to go to the Barca Academy camp in Arizona. I ask him if he remembers what day it is. He pauses and says, “Father’s Day.” I ask him if he can guess what I’m making for dinner…
“Tacos? Tacos de canasta, tacooo-O-ooos.” (We’ve been repeating this Netflix Taco episode refrain for years now. It’s addictive.)
“Nate, I made tacos last night!”
“Oh yeah. Ribs.”
And he’s guessed exactly right. I literally planned ribs for dinner, forgetting it was Father’s Day, and didn’t realize it until I’m checking my meal plan and pulling them out to defrost.
We don’t always have to try. We don’t even have to consciously remember. They just come through.